


Coffee

by CrypticNymph



Category: The Hour
Genre: Coffee, F/M, First Meetings, Flirting, Is there such a thing as camera flirting?, Photography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 09:13:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrypticNymph/pseuds/CrypticNymph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Randall starts his day as he always does, by frequenting what has to be the worst coffee shop in all of London. The times that Randall and Lix meet before they meet.</p>
<p>Russian translation by the lovely kolfin available here!: https://ficbook.net/readfic/3356577</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee

Randall starts his day as he always does, by frequenting what has to be the worst coffee shop in all of London. You can’t beat it for convenience- it’s a two minute walk from Randall’s flat- but in all other respects, the café is wholly uninspiring.

He likes the place because it’s quiet. It’s quiet because there’s never anyone in it. There’s never anyone in it because the coffee is shitty- barely even identifiable as a liquid, to be honest. The coffee is still shitty after god knows how many years of business because no one has ever complained- they’ve never stuck around long enough- and Randall is the café’s only regular customer. Randall’s never complained because he likes the place. There’s something reassuringly, inevitably cyclical, about the whole business.

He’s focused on the day’s paper when he hears the bell on the door ring. He doesn’t bother looking up. Randall knows that the average passer-by takes one glance at the dirty floor and the questionably stained walls before turning around and walking straight back outside again. A few moments pass. Nothing happens. No bell. Then comes the clack of heels against the tiles- _a woman, presumably._

“Coffee, black, two sugars.”

Foolish, though she isn’t to know. She’s been saved from the slightly curdled milk, but will now have to endure the odd clumps of congealed sugar. He hears her cross the floor again after paying and pull out a chair, scraping it against the ground. _No immediate sounds of disgust. Interesting._

After a while, she gets up. “Another coffee, please.”

_Oh. Well. That’s something._

Finally, he looks up. The woman is tall and dark haired. There’s an air of indolent confidence about her, something in the way she stands- back straight, chin raised, a lit cigarette lazily placed between two fingers. It occurs to Randall that anyone who can stand more than one cup of coffee from this particular café has to have something special about them.

As she walks back to her seat, she catches his eye and gives Randall a small smile. He does not return it. Feeling a little uneasy, he begins to pack up his things. He walks swiftly towards the door and resolutely avoids her gaze. 

***

Randall is surprised to see the woman in the coffee shop again a week later. She is, alarmingly, sat at his usual table, daintily sipping the revolting coffee she’s holding in one hand and turning the pages of her newspaper with the other. He’s not quite sure what do with himself. Randall glances over at the café owner, usually placid and miserable, but he merely smiles cheerily back at him, seemingly delighted that his number of regular customers has doubled. 

Silently, Randall sits down at the table she had previously made use of. _Is this some kind of game? No._ She can’t possibly know that he always sits at that table. He doesn’t quite know why the thought of sitting somewhere else upsets him so, to be honest. The fact of her returning is remarkable enough. Either her taste buds are shot, or she has chosen this place for his for its tranquillity, as he has. Regardless, this woman is disturbing his peace with her presence.

Obscurely, he finds himself glancing at her from time to time. She’s rather striking, he supposes. Younger than him, without the weight of age on her shoulders. Her clothes are masculine in style, fiercely practical, most unlike what he usually notices on a woman. Because he _is_ noticing her. 

Gradually, the time between stolen glances decreases- a minute, thirty seconds, ten- to the point where he’s openly staring at her. She seems so absorbed in her own little world, skimming the pages of whatever paper she had bought. _The Times_ , he thinks, he can just about discern the title from where he sits. She’s not turning the pages exactly, she’s flicking the corners roughly the middle finger of her right hand, as if she’s irritated. She seems irritated by its contents. 

Randall loses himself in thought, and consequently fails to notice that the woman has since met his eyes for a few seconds. _Ah. Oh. Not good_. He feels his face flush and he refocuses his eyes, trying to ignore her chuckle of amusement at his discomfort. 

***

A week later, and this time he’s the first one here.

Randall has been thinking about her, to his irritation. One of his many oddities is the invasiveness of his thoughts. He cannot shake her, it would seem. He’s nervous now, back at his regular table, drinking the more than usually appalling coffee.

Eventually, the woman arrives and Randall straightens up in his seat. She pauses in the doorway, spotting him where he sits, and she smirks. Slowly, she walks over, past the table she’d been swapping with him. She slings her coat over a chair beside her, at the table closest to his, and positions herself directly opposite Randall.

He feels himself growing hot again. Needing something to do with his hands, Randall pulls his camera from his bag. The camera has always been reassuring- it fits his grip perfectly, and the weight of it is comforting. He starts to fiddle with the lens, until he hears the clunk of something heavy against the wood of the table. 

She’s taken out a similar black camera. Hers is a Graflex, American, common for the press. So she’s a journalist too? He looks at the woman and dares to smile. She takes a cigarette from a packet beside her and lights it, slowly bringing it to her lips. She raises a singly inquisitive eyebrow, as if to say, “Your move.”

Hesitantly, Randall picks up his own camera. Bringing it to his eye, he takes the photo. The woman looks surprised at that. Once he’s put his down, she takes her camera and swiftly takes her own photo. He grins at her, more than a little shocked at his own daring. She stubs out her cigarette on the wall beside her and stands up.

“Thornton-Pickard, is it?”

Randall’s alarmed by the unexpected question. “What?”

She cocks her head to one side, bemused. “The camera?”

“Oh!” He coughs. “Yes.”

“Thought so.” She pauses for a few moments, waiting for Randall to say something. And for the life of him, he can’t bring himself to open his mouth, let alone say something coherent. His courage has deserted him. “Well, you’ve got good taste.”

Still, he can’t speak. The woman picks up her coat and smiles, walking towards the door.

“Thanks!” he manages finally, as he reaches the door. She smiles again, but still leaves. Randall puts his head in his hands.

***

After about a month, Randall gives up hope of ever seeing the woman again. She didn’t reappear in the coffee shop- at least, not whilst he’s been there. He decides that he put her off. _She probably thinks I’m a voyeur,_ he laments, _collecting photographs of women in coffee shops as part of some sick fantasy._ He tries to put such thoughts from his mind.

He gets into work at around nine each morning- luckily, he doesn’t live too far away from Limegrove, and as the most senior member of the team there’s no one around to berate him for his lateness. Randall’s preparing for a trip to Spain, for the duration of the conflict. Franco had led an attempted coup against the Spanish Republic a few days previously. He and his team are going to report it, something quite unheard of before this point. 

As he enters the office (careful to count the stairs he climbs first- 23), he sees his colleagues. Randall doesn’t get on with them, social piranha that he is. He’d created too many awkward silences over the years for them to like him, either. He promptly avoids them and heads for his office.

A couple of minutes later, he hears a knock at the door. “Come in.”

It’s Robert, one of his least favourite acquaintances. He has a tendency to make snide comments, and openly leers at the women he works with. “Randall,” he says, voice smug, “we’ve got a new colleague.”

Standing in the doorway is the woman from the café. Holding her camera. Smirking. At him. “Mr Brown?”

He gapes. Robert grins. “This is Alexis Storm. She’s coming to Spain with us.”

She rolls her eyes. “Lix, please, no one calls me Alexis.”

Randall shakes her extended hand. “Ms Storm.”

“You’re the boss, as I understand it?” She’s giving him the same look that she did in the café, but he’s not sure if she’s flirting or it’s her way of pitying him. 

“Yes,” he manages, “I am.”

“Then I’ll make sure I don’t get on the wrong side of you.”

Robert laughs, which makes Randall jump, because he’d forgotten he was here. “Oh, don’t mind Randall. A little standoffish at first, but he’ll soon warm up to you.”

“I should hope so,” Lix murmurs, and if that’s not a shock to his system then he doesn’t know what is. 

He realises he’s still clasping her hand and abruptly releases her. “Well, um, it’s nice to meet you, Ms Storm. I’m sure you will prove yourself invaluable.”

“Likewise.” One final lingering stare and then she turns away to Robert, all business once more. “So where will I be working for the meantime?”

“Just through here,” he laughs, and lightly places his hand on her back to guide her. Randall frowns, though he can hardly lecture anyone on inappropriate behaviour towards a colleague. Once he’s certain that they’re out of earshot, he sighs and half sits half falls down into his chair. This could be a problem for him. 

***

Randall manages to avoid Ms Storm (as he’s careful to always call her, as he is her boss and to even consider her first name feels indecorous) for the first few days, as they’re all busy and her desk is nowhere near his. Occasionally he’ll call the team together for a group meeting, and she watches him intently, but they have not spoken since their introduction.

The dark room is empty save for him, which is reassuring, as he needs a place to be alone. He’s developing photographs- personal ones, not for work this time. They’re mostly of parks around London, a few street shots, and occasionally he’ll have taken one of a burned out building or a broken bottle. Not exactly exciting, but it’s somehow therapeutic to develop the pictures. The cathartic effect of being in control over _something_ \- he can destroy the images should he choose, or keep them should he like them. 

“Nice shots.”

He jerks around. It’s Ms Storm, flooded in red light. She’s standing quite nonchalantly behind him, peering at the photographs he’s taken with a small degree of interest. 

“Ah.” Randall looks down at the pictures. “Ms Storm.”

“You don’t have to be so formal, you know.” Really, he shouldn’t let her talk to him like that, but he’s intrigued by her bluntness. 

“Would you prefer Alexis?”

She frowns. “Lix. Alexis is an awful name.”

He smiles at Lix (as he can now call her) a little teasingly. “I don’t see the problem. Unusual, certainly, but memorable considering it’s usually for men.”

Lix is unimpressed. “Because masculine associations are exactly what you want thrust upon you when you’re thirteen at an all-girls boarding school,” she says dryly. 

“Point taken.”

There’s a moment of silence, but for the first time, it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. She looks back at the photos. “Some of these are rather good.”

Randall waves the notion aside. “They’re nothing, really. I think I’ll burn them.”

“Film’s getting expensive, you know. I wouldn’t take so many photos if you don’t intend to keep them.”

“I allow for such expenses.”

“Why ever for?”

He sighs. “I think I’m looking for poetry where there is none. Some kind of meaning. I wish to understand.” The words are unbidden, but she’s making this situation surprisingly easy. He’s comfortable talking to her.

“Understand what, exactly?” She’s not mocking him; at least he doesn’t think she is. Lix looks curious. 

“Why things happen. Events. Coincidences.”

She hesitates. “Like our meeting, you mean.”

“So that _was_ you, then?”

“Yes.” There’s a hint of a smirk on Lix’s face. “Odd, really, wasn’t it?”

“Certainly.” He’s not quite sure what to say. “I wouldn’t recommend that place to my worst enemy, frankly. Why did you go?”

“The coffee was awful.”

“I fail to see how that is an incentive.”

She laughs. “If I start drinking nice coffee then I’ll get spoilt. Ultimately it does the same job, if I start getting picky about what I drink then I’ll just end up exhausted over in Spain.”

It made a strange kind of sense. “I, er, wanted to apologise for that, actually.”

Lix frowns at him. “Why?”

“Because had I known that we would be working together, I never would have…” Randall trails off and runs a hand through his hair. 

“Flirted with me?” Lix finishes for him. It feels too real now she’s said it aloud. He searches for something to say, but words escape him. “Had _I_ known that we would be working together, I wouldn’t have flirted either.”

So he hadn’t been imagining it, then. That was comforting. “Right.”

“I flirt with everyone, you see. Doesn’t matter who.”

That was a little less flattering. “Oh.”

Her smile grows wider. “You misunderstand me. Had I known that you were my boss, then I’d have been a lot more forthcoming.”

Randall widens his eyes. “Because I’m your boss?”

“Because I would have known that I’d see you again.”

He pauses before he speaks, unable to tear his gaze away from her. “I didn’t see you again. After you stopped coming, I mean.” Does he sound needy? 

“I had been staying with a friend who lives nearby,” Lix explains. “After a couple of weeks, I was back on the other side of London.”

Randall looks down at his feet. “So you didn’t miss the coffee, then?”

“… No. London has an abundance of terrible coffee shops.”

He continues to stare resolutely downwards. “Right,” he says weakly.

“I missed the company, though.”

By the time his head snaps upwards again, she’s turning away and walking back out of the room. Lix smirks at him once last time where he stands, rooted to the spot, before she leaves.

Glancing at the pile of photographs, Randall takes one out. Lix’s face looks back at him- bemused, entertained, a little shocked.

_Perhaps there is poetry in this world after all._


End file.
